Introduction
by Giratina
Summary: In this world, people are not born. They are introduced.


_'Introduction' in the Hundred-Theme Challenge.  
><em>

_- Gira_

* * *

><p>He was made as a fluke, and discarded from his birth world mere seconds after creation. No one saw him fall. He woke up sitting against something pointy and cold; a gate to a lonely house in a lonely forest in a lonely world. There, he lived for a few weeks… until the creatures came.<p>

He was the Thirteenth.

—

She was having a fine old time in her grimy world, thank you very much. Who had taken that and thrown it away? She didn't know, but true to her lost nature, she immediately blamed the first person who came with information. This was how she made her first enemy within the castle she would come to call the Testosterone Bucket.

She was the Twelfth.

—

He lived an unimpressive life and died an unimpressive death. While at the time he could have lied to himself, said he had died for his Queen, he would later look upon the incident with disgust. She had never been a nice woman anyway, and he was sure that the decision to sacrifice him to the Darkness wasn't made by the Black Club soldier who pushed him.

He was the Eleventh.

—

The others had had the luxury of knowing when they lost themselves (or so he thought), but unfortunately, he had been given no such liberty. Maybe he would have, if he hadn't been completely drunk at the time… but then again, if he hadn't been drunk, he probably wouldn't have died in the first place.

He was the Tenth.

—

What he had noticed first was that he wasn't underwater. What he noticed second was that this wasn't a problem. And that, in itself, was a problem. Considering the failure he would someday become, he adapted fairly well to the new situation… but it still took him a while to get used to the fact that he didn't have gills anymore.

He was the Ninth.

—

He had every intention of living through that hellish night, to see the living (operative word) nightmare that was morning, and he would bring his friends with him. Unfortunately, he was never really the best shot in the range when it came to helping his friends.

He was the Eighth.

—

His last memory was looking up at the sky, where he could just see a ship shooting off into the aether. It had no significance at the time (because a second later his mind had been brought to a not-quite-final halt), but later he would realize what it was — it was a gummicraft with sights set on another world, and he wasn't on it.

He was the Seventh.

—

Truth be told, this one didn't remember the exact circumstances of his death either. He didn't remember the exact circumstances of anything at all. The last thing he knew was a splitting headache and a cacophony of screams. What he didn't know was that the headache came from endless attacks inflicted, and the screams weren't his.

He was the Sixth.

—

Later, he would look back upon those last few weeks and think that they had all been a veritable circus of idiots, himself included. It had only really hit him on the final night, with darkness taking his vision, his feeling, his senses — and when it hit, it hit _hard_.

He was the Fifth.

—

It was entirely possible that he was in fact partially responsible for what had come to pass, more so than many of the others. It had not been his idea initially, but he had eventually become even more frenzied than any of the others, shocking even his new superior on occasion. Well, with great knowledge comes great insanity, so they say.

He was the Fourth.

—

This one received no notable aspect of his death; no maniacal rampage, no midnight revelation, nothing. All that had happened was that he was fighting off the onslaught of creatures that had spewed from a portal in the sky, and he lost. He never forgot that loss, because he had once prided himself on never losing. Ever.

He was the Third.

—

Unlike almost all of the others, he had received advance warning of this catastrophe, though of course it was by no work of his own. He spent his last days indulging in everything, primarily beer and headshots. It was him who ran off just moments before to make his great escape; an escape which ultimately failed, all things considered.

He was the Second.

—

Oh well. All good things must come to an end, he supposed. Though this was perhaps good in that when the doors of his old world closed, the doors of his new one opened. And he now had five or six loyal servants. That was nice too.

He was the First.

—

Everything about this one's birth had been ordinary. He lived in a small community and loved it, or at least the parts he could understand at the time. He was born to normal parents in normal circumstances to a normal house in a normal world, and absolutely nothing was flawed, at all. _Those_bits only came a few years later, when he found a heart on the wind, carrying with it words of suffering and incompleteness.

He was the key.


End file.
